


innovation

by WingsOfTime



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, laranthir is here to be a mom, roza is just trying his best, trahearne has millennial meets a child prodigy syndrome gosh bless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: The commander is just one of those frustrating people who just so happen to be good at everything they try.Or so Trahearne thought.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	innovation

**Author's Note:**

> just a short lil drabble ;3;;

No, truly, it is great that Roza has chosen to pursue some sort of education, no matter how belated or simplistic. It is. It is just that…

“I am sorry,” Trahearne interrupts, which is decidedly unprofessional of him. “Roza, what is that supposed to do again?”

Laranthir, standing across the war table across from him with Roza, gives him a look that implies that the use of his given name instead of his title has not escaped his notice, and he is prepared to intervene from a similarly personal standpoint if need be. Trahearne doesn’t understand why. If Roza had made that… thing as _his_ student, he would have failed him.

Roza crosses his wrists neatly behind his back. “It is my homemade instrument for my class,” he declares proudly.

 _Instrument_. “It is a jar of dried leaves,” says Trahearne. “Malomedies will not accept that as a submission.”

Roza frowns. “Why not? There is plenty of math behind it. I have written it all down—you may go over it if you like, but I do not think you will understand it. Mathematics is not your strong suit.”

Laranthir covers a suspiciously breathy cough with his fist. Trahearne crosses his arms.

“It does not even make any sound,” he argues.

Roza raises his eyebrows, and very pointedly, shakes the jar. It lets out a pathetic, wispy little noise that barely qualifies as a rattle.

“You cannot be serious,” says Trahearne.

Roza squares his shoulders. “I fail to see your problem with my work, Trahearne, unless insecurity is rendering it one of a more personal nature. I’ll have you know that Malomedies said I was a very promising young sylvari. He said I will accomplish a lot.”

Not in this particularly field of artistry, that is for certain. “ _Insecurity?”_

“Roza,” Laranthir interrupts with a benign smile Roza absolutely does not deserve, “It is wonderfully innovative. I am very proud of you.”

Roza visibly preens, a flush dusting his cheeks. “No no no,” Trahearne cuts in before he can begin to feel badly, “I want to know what _that_ comment is supposed to mean.”

Roza regards him with unconcerned black eyes. “You have demonstrated much frustration in the past for your inability to teach me necromantic concepts which I already know,” he points out. “Perhaps you are feeling insecure because of the fact that I have managed to create something functional and creative completely by myself.”

Trahearne is at a temporary loss for words. Thankfully, Roza seems to be stating that as an observation rather than an argument—absurd as it is—which leaves him more dumbfounded than offended.

“He will like it, right?” Roza is saying to Laranthir.

“Of course. Ah… perhaps decorate it a little.”

“Alright.” A surreptitious glance at Trahearne. “I will paint it in private. Perhaps it is best to shield my work from jealous gazes.”

By the Pale Tree. “My most sincere apologies,” Trahearne says, insincerely. “I was simply… taken aback by your reasoning. You are right—your skills certainly lie in necromancy.”

Laranthir shoots him a sharp glance. Roza smiles, lighting up. “Oh, so I was correct! Thank you for admitting to your feelings of inadequacy, Trahearne.”

Thorns, Trahearne of course loves his commander, but sometimes it is hard to resist the urge to defenestrate him.

“Most definitely,” he agrees. “In fact, you were so correct that seeing the quality of…” He glances at the jar. “… your craftsmanship with my own eyes has put me at ease. Skilled as you are in many areas, I would have never thought that you could achieve such a result.”

Roza is practically glowing from the perceived praise. He will fit right in with the rest of the saplings in Malomedies’s class, Trahearne thinks privately (he will wisely keep that thought to himself, although perhaps share it with Laranthir after he calms down).

“That is very kind of you to say, Trahearne.” Roza ducks his head. “Aha. It is a little silly, I know, but it is sometimes difficult to believe that I am as competent as the rest of you. I have only a couple of years of real experience under my belt, after all. But anyways.” He clears his throat. “That is enough sentimentality for today. Let us return to the matter at hand.”

Now Trahearne doesn’t even need Laranthir’s glare to feel guilty. “One more thing,” he adds reluctantly, and Roza glances at him.

“I… may have a planter pot or two in my office that needs painting.” Trahearne is going to regret this. He is. “Perhaps, if you have the time…?”

Roza straightens up, puffing out his chest. “I will accept!” he announces grandly. “Ah—for ten silver a pot, that is. An artist never undersells themselves. But thank you for believing in the quality of my work, Trahearne. I can guarantee you your trust is not misplaced.”

Yes, Trahearne regrets this already. “Of course,” he says, resigning himself to what is probably going to turn into an entire office of an eyesore.

Roza gifts him with a beaming smile.

~*~


End file.
